And They Lived
by saudade do coracao
Summary: [The Hundred-Foot Journey] If you're going to love a Kadam, you have no choice but to become a part of the Kadam family. – The three oldest Kadam siblings find love in Lumière. Hassan/Marguerite, Mahira/Man on Bike, Mansur/Original Male Character.
1. Hassan

**Fandom:** _The Hundred-Foot Journey_

**Rating:** T for language, sexual references, and coming-out angst  
**Pairings:** Hassan/Marguerite, Mahira/Man on Bicycle, Mansur/Original Male Character

**Note:** I do not speak French or Hindi, nor do I know anything about French or Indian cooking. I apologize for any linguistic and culinary errors. Please let me know if I need to fix anything. Also, I am only familiar with the movie version of this story, if that affects anything.

**Disclaimer: ** I am not affiliated with Richard C. Morais, Scribner Publishing, Simon & Schuster, Amblin Entertainment, DreamWorks Studios, Harpo Films, Imagenation, Participant Media, or Reliance Entertainment. No profit is made from this story.

* * *

When he stood in the doorway to her apartment building, getting drenched in the downpour, asking her what he should do, Marguerite knew she loved him. All the petty arguments before, the jealousies, the rivalry, was nothing now. Hassan was here, and he was on the brink of the biggest thing that could ever happen to him, and he was scared, and she loved him.

She loved him, and she had to let him go.

"Go," she said. "Go, it's okay, go."

If he stayed one more minute, they both knew she would pull him inside and up the stairs to her apartment, and he would never leave her side again.

"Hassan, it's all right. Go," she said.

He nodded and got back into the taxi. Marguerite stood and watched him drive away, tasting the kiss he didn't leave on her lips.

* * *

They wrote to each other, of course, sometimes. It reminded her of when she had first known him and he had hesitantly asked questions to which he received short answers. It had been a game then, a slow flowering of something which she had both shied away from and anticipated. Now the texts felt like the bud had died before it had even grown, and they were trampling on its remains. She missed him. She wondered if he knew it.

* * *

Marguerite would never be as good as Hassan. That was something she had to accept. She had worked for Madame Mallory for years, faithfully sacrificing everything to Le Saule Pleureur, while he worked under Mme Mallory for only one year. Yet Mme Mallory told Marguerite nothing of planning to retire from managing the restaurant, while she handed the reins of Le Saule Pleureur to Hassan. Marguerite's old self would have flared up, struck out at Hassan, but she had grown now. She loved Hassan the man, and loving the man meant accepting the chef, and accepting the chef meant accepting that he was better than she was.

She told him as much when he pulled her aside to tell her the news. He apologized for usurping her place, looking at her like he had years ago, when she pushed him away for gaining Mme's favor. He didn't look like the man who had used his creative genius to single-handedly bring a tired restaurant back into Parisian.

"You don't owe me any favors," she said. "This is yours. It is your right. You don't need to feel sorry for me." It sounded bitter, but it wasn't, really. It was accepting. There was a place for her in the world of food, but it was not his place.

"Marguerite," he said. "I don't feel sorry for you. Le Saule Pleureur is your restaurant. I couldn't run it without you."

"Ha," she said, cleaning the sea urchins, "says the man who's getting a third Michelin star tomorrow."

"Marguerite," he said. His hands lay still on the cutting station, garlic forgotten. "I can't do it without you. I _won't _do it without you."

Heat flared up inside her like she had added too much Cognac before flambéing a dish. "Don't be stupid, Hassan," she said. "You just told me this is want you want."

"Yes," he said, using a hand to sweep toward the whole kitchen before indicating the space between him and her. "_This _is what I want. You are the soul of this place, Marguerite. You always have been for me."

She wondered what had happened to the bashful man who depended on little gestures to get his point across. This Hassan was not afraid to state things openly. "I will think about it," she allowed, turning away. "You had better start shaping the croissants if you want them to be ready by morning."

A hint of his old smile played across his face. "All right."

She accepted his business proposal, of course, and they ran the restaurant with the grace and skill that only comes with the perfect pairing of Chef de Cuisine and Sous-Chef de Cuisine. Their third Michelin star was awarded in two years.

The next year, Hassan looked down at their new baby girl, cradled in Marguerite's arms. "She is the real star of Le Saule Pleureur," he said, and kissed his wife on the top of her head.

They named her Sitara, Hindi for star, and she was the greatest achievement of all.


	2. Mahira

The village of Lumière was not surprised to hear that Jean the mechanic's son had driven his bicycle straight into a car. They were surprised, however, when they found out it was because of a pretty girl. Jean was at home on break from the university, and he had always had his head in the clouds. Not much practical use in the mechanic shop, but brilliant enough to win a scholarship in engineering to École Centrale Paris. He had never had time for love—the town could not even remember him ever showing interest in anyone—so to hear that Mahira Kadam had turned his head was quite the news.

There were two problems: One was that Mahira Kadam did not seem to be interested in Jean Lemaire, and the other was that Jean Lemaire did not know the first thing about getting a woman's attention. It made for some good gossip at the café in the morning. The poor man ate at the Maison Mumbai for nearly every meal. His patronage pleased Monsieur Kadam, for sure, especially when Jean's university friends came to visit and all accompanied him to the restaurant. But M. Kadam was not going to approve of a French boy romancing his daughter, and Mahira was not going to outstep her father's bounds. So the poor lovesick Jean mooned over Mahira, began to smell like curry from nearly living at Maison Mumbai, and crashed into things on his bike even more than usual.

Some found this situation added laughter to their lives, but others took pity on the young man. "Send her flowers and chocolate," they said. "A woman can't say no to flowers and chocolate."

So Mahira received flowers and chocolate every day for three days until M. Kadam took Jean aside and told him that Papa did not approve of Jean and Mahira.

"But what does Mahira think?" Jean asked plaintively.

"Mahira thinks Papa knows best!" said M. Kadam.

The men of Lumière did not despair. "Oh, you must win over the father first," they said to Jean. "Earn his trust. Help him. Make him come to rely on you, and then he can't say no."

So Jean valiantly attempted to do small repairs around Maison Mumbai and change the oil in the Kadam van for free, which M. Kadam allowed because a good deal was a good deal. But the men of the village had forgotten that Jean was not the best man for this kind of job. The van burnt out because of a shortage of oil, and Jean succeeded in bringing down the whole pavilion cover when he tried to nail a board back in place.

"You are not very good at this," commented Mahira, appearing from inside to help pull him out from under the ruins of the pavilion.

"I'm sorry!" said Jean. "It was an accident!"

"Like the van was an accident?" she asked, using both hands to brush the dirt from his clothes.

"Yes! I'm no good at these things, I know…"

"I think you are trying to put us out of business," said Mahira. She crossed her arms.

"No!" gasped Jean. "No! I would never! I love Maison Mumbai. It is just what Lumière needs. I would never try to hurt it!"

"Hmm," said Mahira. "I think you had better stop trying to fix it, then."

Jean hung his head. "I know. I'm sorry."

"Your arm is bleeding," she said. "You had better come inside."

Mahira led him inside and sat him down outside the kitchen. Mansur raised his eyebrows but said nothing. Mukthar and Aisha were not so kind.

"Mahira! Mahira! What happened?"

"There has been an accident," she said, cleaning Jean's arm with a wet cloth.

The two peeked outside. "Ooh," said Aisha. "Papa-ji is not going to be happy!"

"He is going to whip your hide!" said Mukthar to Jean.

"Shush!" scolded Mahira. "Go make yourselves useful and help Mansur."

"Oh! Oh!" Aisha sing-songed. "Mahira loves Jean, Mahira loves Jean!"

Mahira blushed. "Away with you!" she said, pushing them out the door.

"Thank you for helping me," said Jean, as she wrapped up his arm. "I'm sorry about the pavilion."

Mahira stood back and surveyed her handiwork. "Well, of course you will have to stay and tell Papa." Jean winced. "But in the meantime, I made you makhani dhal."

He perked up. "Really?"

"Yes, it was to say thank you, but now it will have to give you strength to talk to Papa. Come eat it and then we will clean up the pavilion together."

She led him into the kitchen and fed him his favorite Indian dish. Then they hauled all the wood and cloth off the chairs in the pavilion. When M. Kadam came home, Mahira dragged her papa aside and talked to him first. Jean talked to him second, and M. Kadam yelled at him for only five minutes instead of the fifteen Jean was expecting.

"Well, you can't say you didn't try," said the village men to Jean.

The young man was in very low spirits, and he didn't go back to Maison Mumbai for a week. When he did go, he was greeted at the gate by M. Kadam. "Ha! Where do you think you have been?" M. Kadam boomed. "Mahira is going to waste away from sighing over you!"

"Wh—What?" stuttered Jean.

"My daughter! Mahira! Surely you have not forgotten her already?"

"N—No," said Jean. "But you said—"

"You, young man, have stolen my daughter's heart out from under my very nose!" accused M. Kadam.

"I have?" Jean brightened a little.

"Yes, you thief! And now, if you do not properly court her, you will damage her honor and break her heart!"

"I would never—"

"So you must go inside and reassure my daughter at once!" said M. Kadam. He lowered his voice. "Just do not touch anything."

So Jean properly courted Mahira, and eventually there was a real traditional Indian wedding that all of Lumière was delighted to attend. Once Jean and Mahira were married, Mahira did the house repairs, cooked, and organized Jean's papers, and Jean invented a new synthetic material that was very popular with clothing designers. It made them enough money that they could live in comfort, and M. Kadam told everyone how clever he was for setting up his daughter with the smart French boy.

And the village of Lumière thought it a good story after all.


	3. Mansur

Please see the end of the chapter for a list of Hindi words and their meanings.

* * *

Nobody ever bothers to ask you anything. When Hassan left, it was just assumed that you would take his place in the kitchen. Never mind that you will never be as good a cook as him. Never mind that he has always been the leader in the kitchen, and you the follower. Never mind that Hassan is getting a new opportunity and you have to stay here. No one asked you. It was just taken for granted.

You love your family and you love your brother. You love Indian ways. But it would be nice if someone would just ask for once.

You struggle to carry on in the kitchen with the same workload and one less worker. Mahira stays by you, working just as hard, and of course Papa cooks, too. Mukthar and Aisha try to help, but they are just children, and you are not a teacher. Your mother was the teacher. You are just Mansur, trying to get by.

"Ahh, this is no good!" says Papa, tasting your gulab jaamun. "You have burnt them!"

You throw down your sarashi. "I'm sorry, Papa! It is too hard to try to do everything with only three people!"

Mahira turns away from the karahi, where she is frying samosas. Sweat drops dot her face. "It is true, Papa. We have more guests than ever, but no one extra to cook for them. We are tired!"

"Hmm," says Papa. "This is true. I will ask Mama what to do."

The next week, Papa puts out an ad for an Indian cook. You don't expect anyone to come. This is France, after all, with its own cuisine, and there are only so many crazy Indians who want to compete with that. Your family probably fills the whole quota.

But two weeks later, a tall man in his thirties shows up. His name is Tanuj. "I am from Kerala," he says. "My auntie taught me to cook."

"Where is your family?" asks Papa.

"All dead," he says. "There is only me."

"Well, young man," Papa says, "cook us some biryani, and we will see what you are made of."

Tanuj moves through the kitchen as if he owns it, when he has only been there five minutes. You and your family stand and watch, bringing ingredients when he asks for them, showing him where everything is. It takes him an hour and a half, but your family is not like Madame Mallory. The Kadams have the patience to wait for good food.

Tanuj sets the plate before Papa and stands back respectfully. Papa makes a big show of tasting the first bite. You privately think he has been spending too much time with Madame. You know he will eat the whole thing. It is just silly drama to act as if he might throw it out.

"Delicious," says Papa, and all the Kadam children breathe a sigh of relief.

Tanuj stands still, waiting. Papa takes another bite, bigger this time. "I can offer you two hundred a week," he tells Tanuj.

Tanuj scoffs. "What do you think I am, an idiot?"

You wince. Papa will not stand being talked to like that. It is one thing from foreigners, but from a younger Indian—no. But all he says, taking another bite, is "Two hundred twenty-five."

Tanuj starts gathering up his things. "Do you see the many other Indian cooks lining up to take this job? Tell _them_ two hundred twenty-five."

Mahira throws you a look: _Stop him!_ You step forward. "Papa," you begin, but he waves you away.

"Mansur, let me attend to my business. Two hundred fifty."

Tanuj laughs, and you fight the urge to slap your hand over your face. The man throws you a grin before turning to your father. "Sahib, you tasted my food. Where else will you find that kind of soul? I do not work for less than five hundred fifty a week."

"Ah, do you see this man, Mukthar? Do you see this man, Mahira? He is trying to rob your Papa in his own house!"

Mahira can't keep silent anymore. "Papa!"

He waves her away, too. "I will not stand for this!" he thunders. Then, "Three hundred. That's _with _room and food."

Tanuj shuts the snaps on his bag. "Five hundred or no deal."

Papa stands up, a gleam in his eye, and you suddenly realize he is _enjoying_ this. He's about to give you a bloody heart attack, and he loves it. "Three hundred fifty."

Tanuj gestures to Papa's (somehow) already-empty plate. "I think your stomach says I am worth at least four hundred fifty."

"Four hundred fifty! Preposterous! Mansur, do you see how he is trying to swindle an old man? Four hundred."

"With room and food?" asks Tanuj.

"Aiiee, what kind of swindler is this?" complains Papa.

Tanuj waits.

Papa says, "With room and food."

"Done," says Tanuj, and holds out his hand.

Tanuj is a good cook, but too bold. If something goes wrong or there is a mistake, he doesn't start over. He keeps working with it until it becomes something new. You don't think Maison Mumbai should be serving things like that. You have a menu. You are expected to serve traditional Indian food. Hassan did things like that, and it made you uncomfortable enough. But he was your brother, and you trusted him. Tanuj is a stranger, and he is not making the food more French. He makes it more like Tanuj, sharp and overwhelming.

"'Hassan, Hassan, Hassan,'" Tanuj mocks you. "That is all you ever say, Mansur. 'Hassan would not do this, Hassan would not do that.'"

"Hassan is a great cook," you say stiffly. "All the papers in Paris are writing about him."

"Hassan is not here," says Tanuj, chopping mutton into strips. "What would Mansur do? That is what you should be thinking about."

"Hassan was our head cook. I am not a head cook," you try to explain.

Tanuj looks up with interest. "Does that make me head cook, then?"

"No," you say, stirring the chole bhature. "You have been here the least of all of us."

"Oh, so Mahira must be head cook."

She looks up from her side of the kitchen. "I am not!"

"Oh, that's right," says Tanuj. "You are too busy romancing your French boy."

Mahira blushes and flaps her hand at him. "Oh, you! Keep your mind on your mutton. You are slicing it too thick."

"I am not slicing it too thick and you know it, Mahira Kum." He points his knife at her. "Tanuj does not slice mutton too thick. Don't change the subject."

"I thought the subject was who is head cook," she says.

You envy their easy camaraderie. "Papa is head cook," you say, jaw clenched.

"Ah, that explains it!" exclaims Tanuj.

"Explains what?" you ask.

"Why this kitchen has no direction! The burra sahib is too busy romancing the French competition."

No one talks about your father like that. "Papa is a wise and excellent cook. People used to travel for miles to come to Mumbai and taste his dishes!"

Tanuj goes back to chopping the mutton. "There is no doubt that the burra sahib is a good cook. But being a good cook does not make you a good head of a restaurant."

His words sting. They remind you that, back in Mumbai, Mama was the real force behind the restaurant. Papa was the figurehead, but Mama tended to the details. Your family has been so lost without her. You had looked to Hassan to step up into her place, but now the family has no one.

You discreetly dash at your eyes with your arm, but Tanuj catches you. "The onions are too strong, yes?" he asks you, but there's a gentleness in his voice that lets you know he's not asking about the onions. Mahira hears it, too. She looks over at you in concern.

"The onions are fine," you say.

All your interactions are like this. Tanuj, a presence who owns the kitchen like it was never anyone else's. Mahira, happy and in love with Jean and treating Tanuj like he's a brother there to replace Hassan. Tanuj even gets along with the children, feeding them sweets and scolding them for sticking their fingers in the pots as if he has been doing it all his life. Somehow, Papa also likes him. They fight all the time, and Papa fakes being wounded by Tanuj's insolence, but it is all in good fun. You never thought your father would allow a young man to disrespect him, but Tanuj's behavior only seems to make Papa respect him more.

And then there is you, on the outside, as always, but even more so because Tanuj is a problem for you in a way that he cannot be to anyone else. Tanuj is an excellent cook, an adventurous person, loud and opinionated and good at everything. You hate him and you admire him and you can't stand to be near him and you can't stand to be away from him and you love him. And you hate yourself for it.

You've always known this about yourself, that you turn this way. But you thought it was shameful and hid it, committing yourself to Papa's restaurants and to your family. You've never actually been in love, and now you know why people speak of it as a disease. It eats away at you, keeping you from sleeping and eating, makes you burn when your love is near and be miserable when he is away. It takes everything in you to hide it.

Tanuj doesn't make it easy. His hand brushes yours too often in the kitchen, and you catch his eyes on you when you turn suddenly from what you've been doing. The way he looks at you makes your blood run hot and cold all at once. He'll stand near and speak softly to you ("You're doing well, Mansur") until your hands tremble. At the end of long days, when Mahira is out with Jean and Papa is dancing with Madame Mallory and the children run the streets, Tanuj sits you down in a chair and hands you a glass of water, his hand lingering a little too long as he claps you on the shoulder. "You work too hard, meri jān," he says. You know that men say that to each other as well as to their lovers, and it means something different in each case. But Tanuj says it to you in a way that reminds you of its literal meaning. _My life. My soul. Darling._

It's going to strangle you alive. So you start picking fights with him. You're cruel and mean and you hate yourself, you're not like this, but you don't know how else to survive. You yell at each other across the kitchen and storm out and work in stony silence. Mahira watches you both with confusion, and the children stay away, and Papa says, "My sons, you must get along."

You can't. You can't.

"You're going to drive Tanuj away," says Mahira quietly, when they're alone. "What are you doing, Mansur? What's happened to you?"

"Nothing has happened to me," you say. "He is arrogant, and he doesn't deserve to be here."

"Mansur," she reproaches, "Tanuj is a good man. He is a good cook. He has done nothing to you."

"He's not your brother," you snap, and Mahira draws back.

"I know that."

"No, you don't. And neither do Mukthar and Aisha. You all miss Hassan so much you pretend that you have another brother in his place."

"How dare you!" she cries. "I love Hassan just as much as you. It's not a betrayal to accept someone else in the kitchen."

You let her think that your problem with Tanuj is loyalty to Hassan. If only. You fight with him even more, tell him he is a terrible cook and a blight on Indian cuisine. Things explode one night when it's the two of you alone, cleaning up. Everyone else is out. You tell him that he's a second-rate cook and that his salary is a waste of your father's money. You shout, "Go back to India!"

Tanuj was on the other side of the kitchen, but he's suddenly in your space, pushing you up against the refrigerator. His hands pin you there as he kisses you hard on the mouth.

Shock bursts on your lips and skitters through you, sparking across your skin. Immediately your hands reach for him—no thinking, just wanting. He's warm in your arms, alive and near. The dim lights crackle in the ceiling, and it's quiet, just you and Tanuj. For a moment you believe that this is right, this could work. You don't have to live without him anymore.

Tanuj pulls away and rests his forehead against yours. "Mansur," he murmurs. "It's okay. I know. It's all right."

You realize you're crying. He gathers you up and holds you against him. You rest your head in the crook of his neck and weep.

In a while, he says, "My parents aren't dead. They disowned me, because I am like this. So I know. It's hard."

You let that sink in and suddenly push him away. He watches you, eyes vulnerable. "I can't do this," you say.

"It's okay to be afraid," he says.

You shake your head. "I'm sorry."

"Mansur," he whispers. "Please."

His plea hangs in the air between you. In all the time Tanuj has been here, you've never heard him ask for anything. It sounds wrong. He shouldn't be reduced to this. You're hurting him. You're hurting yourself.

You push past him, and he doesn't try to stop you. You run as far as you can.

Your father finds you in a bar five hours later, drunk and wretched. "Mansur," Papa says, in his deep voice, "come home."

You take another drink. He pulls the glass from your hands. "Papa, I can't."

"I am your father, and I am telling you to come home," he says.

Habit forces you stand up. Papa puts his arm around you and half-drags you outside. He sits you in the passenger seat of the van and buckles you in before going around and getting in the driver's seat. Instead of starting the ignition, he sits there.

"Tanuj says the two of you fought," he says.

You hiccup. "Yes."

There's a sigh. "He will not talk to me about it."

"Oh."

"What is this that is happening between you children? Why all this fighting?"

You hold it in, trembling and biting your lips, tears streaming down your face, until you can't anymore. "I love him, Papa." It breaks out of you against your will, escaping a cage that is three decades old, and you look away, unable to look your father in the face.

"Mmm," says Papa, very low, and then says nothing.

You pick at the upholstery on your chair and wait. His silence is almost more terrible than the yelling you were expecting.

"I will have to ask your Mama about this," he says finally. He starts the van. You don't ask where he's taking you. You don't care.

He has to stop on the way because you start throwing up. You manage to get the van door open and lean out before it happens. Papa reaches over and steadies your body as you hurl ten glasses of alcohol into the street.

He brings you home. Mahira meets you outside, and they both help you to your room. You can't look at either of them. You can't answer her when she asks if you're all right.

You lie in bed all night and don't sleep. You throw up twice more. On your way back from the bathroom, you see Mukthar peeking at you through a crack in his doorway. You look away.

Morning comes, and you don't leave your room. You hear voices floating through the house, your father's deepest of all. There are no sounds coming from the kitchen, and somehow that's what scares you the most.

Finally, Papa opens the door and comes in. He sits on the edge of your bed. He looks like he hasn't slept all night.

"I have spoken to your Mama," he says.

You say nothing.

"She says that things are different now than they were when we were in India," he says slowly. "Mama says she wants you to love and be happy."

You start crying again. "And what do you say, Papa?"

"Mmm," he says. "I do not understand this. But you are my son, and I love you." He reaches across the bed to pull you into his embrace. You collapse against him. For a moment you're a small boy again, terrified of something, and your Papa is comforting you.

"It is a new world," says Papa. "Your brother is in love with a French woman. Your sister is betrothed to a French fool. I love a mad French devil-woman! Who am I to tell you your heart is wrong?"

Your tears come faster. Your eyes are so tired of crying, but your heart is full.

"At least he is Indian," muses Papa. "In that, you did better than all of us."

You scoff from within his hold. Trust your father to find something traditional about all of this.

Papa releases you from his embrace, but still holds onto you by your shoulders. "Tanuj is a good man. It will be good to have him in the family."

You laugh through your tears. "I don't even know if he wants that."

Papa frowns. "If Tanuj is going to love one of my children, he does not have a choice. To be loved by a Kadam is to be a Kadam." He pauses thoughtfully. "Also, it will keep him at the restaurant. That is good. We cannot afford to lose him."

"Papa!" You don't know how you got here, from wondering if you were going to be disowned to telling your father he can't use you as leverage to keep your boyfriend working at the family restaurant.

And…boyfriend. Tanuj can be your boyfriend, if he wants. You think he does. You hope he does. This will all be very embarrassing and awkward if that's not where he was headed.

"Now go see him before he dies of a broken heart," says Papa.

"What?"

"The man has been crying a river from his room since I went to see him this morning. It's a wonder the two of you didn't flood the house with all your tears."

You straighten. "You talked to Tanuj about me?"

"Well, yes. I had to do my duty as your father."

You have a sinking feeling in your stomach. "What do you mean?"

Papa looks stubborn. "Just because you love a man does not mean I should not make sure he is a good match for you, Mansur."

Heat floods your face. "Papa!"

"I had to know his intentions toward you!"

"Papa!" you cry. "I'm not Mahira!"

"I am your father and you are in love, and I have to make sure the boy does not break your heart!"

You feel oddly embarrassed, angry, and elated all at once. "What did he say?"

"Why don't you go ask him?" Papa pushes you toward the door.

You make your way down the hallway and across the house to knock softly at Tanuj's door. "Tanuj?"

The door opens. Tanuj's eyes are red. He looks awful. He holds the door open and shuts it behind you as you walk into his room.

You turn and face him. He's watching you, looking at you like you could hurt him. Maybe you could. He certainly has the power to crush your heart.

"I'm sorry," you say. "Please forgive me. I'm sorry."

You don't know what to do with yourself, but he opens his arms. You go into them like you were meant to be there. "Mai tum se payar karta hun," he says, crying on your shoulder. "Mai tum se payar karta hun." _I love you. I love you._

"Mai tum se payar karta hun," you say back, and you're crying together. "I'm sorry I was such an ass," you choke out through tears. "I was scared. Please forgive me. I loved you and I didn't know what to do."

He kisses your neck, your cheeks, your forehead. "I knew, meri jān. There is nothing to forgive."

Then he kisses you, and the world stops. This kiss is slow and sweet. You don't have to hurry. All the time in the world belongs to the two of you.

When Tanuj breaks away, he smirks at you. "I promised your father I'd marry you."

You groan and hide your face in his shoulder. "You didn't! He didn't!"

Tanuj runs his hands up and down your back. You shiver. "There seemed to be some concern that I would steal your virtue."

That's it. You are never coming out from your hiding spot against his shoulder. You're too embarrassed to look Tanuj in the face. He laughs at your whimper, and his fingers steal up the back of your shirt. "Good thing same-sex marriage is legal in France," he says.

"He acts like I'm Mahira," you whine. "I'm not his daughter."

He kisses your head. "You're as cute as Mahira, though. Cuter, even."

"I am not," you protest, lifting your head up.

"Meri jān, you're adorable," Tanuj says. "Don't pretend like you don't know it." He kisses you again, and soon you're whimpering for another reason altogether. He laughs breathlessly. "Maybe your father had a good reason to be concerned."

"Shut up," you say, and kiss him first this time.

* * *

**Hindi Notes:**

**Sahib** = a polite title for a man  
**Kum** = honorific equivalent to "Miss"  
**Burra sahib** = big man or important person  
**Meri jān** = usually translated "my dear." More literally, "my life." According to Wikipedia: It "can be used with friends of the same gender, or in intimate relationships with the opposite gender." (Methinks Wikipedia is being heteronormative here.)  
**Mai tum se payar karta hun** = "I love you," as said by a man.

* * *

A/N: You may have noticed that I played around with different voices, points of view, and tenses in this story. If you have a minute, I would be very grateful for feedback on how they worked for you as a reader.


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